Prologue
“The U.N. finally
announced today that the evacuation of the remainder of Scandinavia and Japan
is eminent, this following a five year period of questioning whether or not it
would be necessary. U.N. investigators confirmed that radiation levels are still
too high and resources are still too scarce to sustain an economically stable
society. As such, it is expected that citizens will be siphoned into the United
States and the rest of Europe, with the United Kingdom and French Germany in
particular likely to receive a vast number of those refugees.
“In related news,
during her State of the Union address on Thursday President Ahlberg indeed
confirmed that further expeditions are to be taken into the nuclear wastelands
of China to salvage anything else that remains of their cultural heritage. The
Smithsonian –”
“Will
you turn that bullshit off?”
The
man in the passenger seat eyed his driver warily as he turned the radio knob to
silence. “If you’d actually listen to any of the music stations we wouldn’t
have to hear this garbage, would we?”
“I’d
rather sit in silence than listen to the crap this generation calls music.”
“And
that’s why it’s always so pleasant to be in your company,” he grumbled.
“Besides, some people still think it’s important to know what’s going on in the
world. China –”
“China
doesn’t matter,” the driver snapped. “The war’s been over for decades. It’s
time to move on.”
“Yeah,
that’s why we still do what we do. Because the war’s over.”
“We
do what we do for the money. Simple as that.”
The
conversation warranted no more words, and the only sounds remaining were those
of the rain pouring in torrents against the cab and the tires scraping against
the road.
The
moon hid precariously behind the steel gray clouds as the cargo truck finally
backed into the warehouse lot. The driver set the parking break with a sigh
before opening his door and stepping out into the storm, his partner at his
heels. Methodically the two men rounded the truck and heaved the cargo door
open, revealing row upon row of large wooden crates, the word FRAGILE printed
in prominent black ink on each and every one of them.
The
driver hoisted himself inside and began to shove the nearest crate to the edge.
He and his partner lifted it with a grunt, and with eyes turned downward they heaved
the heavy box to the side door of the warehouse, where the man in black stood
waiting. He looked at the two men coldly as they placed the crate on the
concrete before him. “How are they this month?” he demanded calmly.
“Quiet,”
the passenger replied uncertainly. The driver said nothing, refusing to even
raise his eyes.
Steam
hissed from the man in black’s cigarette as he stepped out from under the
overhang and into the rain. Like a predator he circled the crate slowly, every
step deliberate and every glance calculating. Without warning he stopped, and
his steel-toed boot lashed out like a viper, striking just above the FRAGILE
label and sending the wood sliding along the rain-slicked ground. A terrified
shriek erupted from within.
The
man in black smiled in a sickening caricature of emotion as he stomped out his
smoldering cigarette. “Bring me the rest.”
More
men materialized from the warehouse door as the truck drivers began stacking
the boxes just outside. The man in black stood back and watched, arms crossed,
as his lackeys pried each crate open with a crowbar and hastily covered the
girls’ mouths as they emerged screaming from their claustrophobic hell.
Each
waiflike figure was lifted from the boxes by the shoulders, two suited men with
guns coercing them to file inside despite some barely alive enough to stand.
Somewhere in the middle a small brunette fell to her knees in sobs, her muscles
no longer able to support her meager weight. No one had the patience to wait,
and she was replaceable. A remorseless gunshot echoed through the night,
followed by an uproar of horrified cries and the sound of crowbars striking
flesh.
Inside
the scene was different. The only sound was silence as the girls viewed the
concrete cells that would become their home and the empty women already
occupying them. The lady waited for them behind her desk at the far end of the
hall, her face expressionless.
The
first in line was a quivering blond, so terrified she could scarcely speak.
“Name,” the lady demanded impatiently, eyeing the line forming in the corridor.
“Skills. Disabilities.”
The
girl answered tearfully, shivering as her words were plugged into a database
and made her sole identity. She extended her hand at the lady’s insistence,
cringing as the tattoo needles pierced the base of her thumb. “57489. All signs
point to you being yellow,” she told her. “You’re lucky.”
The
lady nodded to the suited man beside her, and with a gloved hand he pushed the
girl’s hair aside and wrapped the black leather choker etched with her name around
her neck, securing the clasp with a key and cutting off any excess material. A
yellow gem was fastened at her throat, and she was ushered off, led by the arm
to her own private cell and tossed on the floor carelessly, her key hung on the
wall outside as the bars slammed shut.
There
she stayed, starving and waiting to be purchased like a dog with the rest.
Outside
the truck was being prepped to leave, and the driver stood in the rain without
concern as his partner fidgeted beside him. The man in black gave them not a
glance as he returned to the warehouse, shutting the doors behind him. A few
men remained behind to clean up the mess they’d made of the brunette. “So much
for a quiet batch,” the passenger muttered.
He
climbed into the cab just as the lackeys finished their work, and he watched
sadly as they dragged the body away, taking as much care as if it were garbage.
Not a speck of blood remained on the concrete. It was as if she’d never
existed.
The
driver climbed in with a scowl and turned the key, and the engine roared to
life. His partner looked at him seriously as they drove off, unable to erase
the scene from his mind. “This can’t be right,” he insisted suddenly. “In fact,
this feels inherently wrong.”
Without
a word the driver stared ahead for what seemed like a lifetime, before an
abbreviated laugh escaped his lips. “You honestly think this has anything to do
with right and wrong?”
“These
girls are people, Eklund. Girlfriends, wives, sisters, daughters, mothers.”
“They’re
a product.”
“Would
you be saying that if your little girl –”
“But she’s not!” Eklund
snarled, forcing the man in the passenger seat to flinch. “If you think of them
as people you’re not going to last long in this job, Mori. They’re a product.
It’s not about rights. It’s about money. Leave your conscience at the fucking
door.”
Mori
shook his head with a bitter chuckle, lighting a cigarette casually as the
warehouse disappeared behind a sheet of rain and darkness. “It’s not just about
the money.”
“What
else would it be about?”
He
closed his eyes for only a moment, but the face of the brunette was scarred
onto his eyelids – but more haunting was the face of the man who’d fired.
There’d been no moral battle behind his eyes at the prospect of taking a human
life; he was merely disposing a defective product.
“Power,”
Mori finally uttered, a chill shooting through him as he forced the scene from
his mind. “It’s about power.”
